It’s a fair question: what century is this? There was fog in the morning, this first day Of the new year, and later overcast There was nothing new in any of that
The fat grey squirrel raided the bird-seed at dawn Which is why he is fat, and dampness dripped From the roof eaves onto the long-dead leaves There was nothing new in that, either
The first cup of coffee, the same old news - It’s a fair question, it is: what century?